Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 56107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
I elbow her. “Whore.”
“Oh, stop.” She laughs. “That’s why we’re here. Fun. Sun. Drinks. Cocks.”
“Eh-hem!” A woman behind us in a pink sundress, standing with a stroller, flashes the stink eye.
“Sorry,” I say to the woman. “My friend has forgotten how to behave in the presence of hot men. And mothers, children, the elderly, innocent forest-dwelling animals—basically anyone who isn’t a porn star.”
The woman snarls and turns her attention to her cooing baby.
“Mila,” Sofie whispers, “you’re such a mean little cow.”
“Moo,” I whisper back.
“Mark my words, girl, before this trip is over, I’m going to have you embracing your inner whiner.”
I scoff. “I’m never going to be a whiner.” I’m a doer, a solver, a survivor of life’s crappy little turns. I am the Turninator. “And don’t start life-coaching me. You said you wanted to take a break from work. So stay in your lane, slut overlord.”
The next reception station opens up, and we check in.
“Ooh.” Sofie claps. “Let the vacation begin.”
It’s half past eight o’clock, and I’m sitting alone in a black, potato-sack dress near the dinner buffet. Even though it’s air conditioned and I have my hair up, I feel like I’m melting.
Who lives in this weather? Amphibians? Still, I’m not gonna lie. This resort is amazing. Waterfalls around every corner. Five-hundred-thread-count sheets. Scenic views of the turquoise bay and powdery white sand that goes forever. Even this restaurant is amazing. I’ve sampled twenty different dishes from the buffet, and every bite was heaven, right down to the salad. It had these little toasted almonds and goat cheese with a mango dressing that made my toes curl. I’m not even a salad person.
Seriously, though, this place is incredible except for one thing: I’m all alone eating dinner.
Sofie texted and said she’d bumped into that waiter and was currently getting a “cat emoji plus boxing glove emoji.” I don’t know if she’s getting fisted, or she’s beating the guy up with her woman part. Either way, ew and very uncool. She promised to meet up at seven in our room to go to dinner, but then texted again two hours ago asking if I’d mind if she flaked.
Sofie: I’m already full. Wink. Wink.
I wasn’t about to ask what she meant, so I replied: You’re here to relax, and I’m a big girl. So, enjoy!
I meant it, too. I’ve never been a clingy, needy kind of person, and neither is Sofie. Last night at her house, she also made it perfectly clear that she intended to squeeze in as much sex, sun, and relaxation as she could on this trip. Then she made me swear that I’d let my hair down for once.
For once? When I asked what she meant, she told me that I sometimes have a giant battery up my ass and need to learn how to chill.
Pondering her words, I stare at my cheesecake-for-one. I don’t have a battery up my ass. I just have a lot on my plate. Work takes up most of my time, so I’m relegated to taking care of other things when I can—laundry, paying bills, stocking my freezer with the sorts of foods that make me question my life choices because they’re all single servings. Am I really so unlovable that no one wants to come home to me?
I take a big mouthful of my dessert and moan. It’s incredibly creamy. And yet, here you are, Mila. No one to share it with.
Meanwhile, Sofie is probably getting fucked five different ways, won’t sleep tonight, and will still wake up looking like an airbrushed supermodel.
But not me. And at some point, I have to take responsibility for my situation. No love life, not the career I want, and constant bad luck with apartments. Part of me is beginning to wonder if the universe is trying to tell me something.
I don’t like living in an apartment? Yeah, maybe I’m onto something.
I’ve always dreamed of owning my own home—something quaint that says: I’m not materialistic, but how cute is my house? Something that brings me joy to come home to every day. I envision a picturesque three-bedroom with pale yellow siding, wildflowers out front, and two white Adirondack chairs on the porch. Maybe there’s a firepit in the back with a shady place to sit and read. Oh. And a hammock. I’d love a hammock. For two, of course. On the inside of the home, there are blond oak hardwood floors, a stone fireplace, and overstuffed couches just perfect for curling up on a cold night. And somewhere in that dream is a man who comes home to me every evening, kisses me tenderly, and tells me how much he missed me all day. Okay, and then he bends me over the kitchen counter and treats me like a dirty, dirty slut. But always lovingly. Like I’m cheap but also classy.